The Christmas Thief
by jjhatter
Summary: When a Christmas gift made by the Mad Hatter is stolen, a certain cat decides to help figure out who took it, and why. A Christmas one-shot inspired by NewSong's "The Christmas Shoes."


Hello, reader(s)! Welcome to this especially special Christmas special! My thanks to fellow author Niphuria, who showed me another story that proved inspirational for this piece. (The name of that story, and its author, I cannot recall. To that author, wherever and whoever they are, I give my regards.) And now, a few things that must be taken care of…

Rating: K+ (for some violence; just to be safe)

Disclaimer: Hey, come here, I want to whisper something to you…I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING! The rights to _Tim__Burton__'__s__Alice__in__Wonderland_ go to Disney, Tim Burton, and anyone else I failed to mention. The characters of _Alice__'__s__Adventures__in__Wonderland_ belong to Lewis Carroll. The titular character here, however, is MINE. This story is inspired heavily by the song _The__Christmas__Shoes_ by NewSong. I do not have any ownership of the song, and none of its lyrics will appear here, although some dialogue is written in the vein of the song's lyrics. If there are any problems with these disclaimers, or this story, contact me!

Notes: For those who will wonder: "Wintreon" equals "Christmas" in Underland.

Summary: The Mad Hatter has made a Christmas gift…and it's been stolen! But who's taken it? And why? Perhaps a certain cat can solve this puzzle… A Christmas story inspired by the song _The__Christmas__Shoes_ by NewSong.

And now, as the Bard might say, "Let the masquerade commence! On with the play!"

**The Christmas Thief**

"AAAAAARGH!"

Mallymkun the Dormouse, who'd been sleeping by the fireplace in the Mad Hatter's Workshop, started with a jolt as she awoke. A bowler hat, with a black veil hanging from it, flew at her, and covered her up. Frightened – more for the Hatter than herself – and startled beyond compare by the confused, agitated scream, she flipped the hat off, simultaneously snapping out her pin-sword.

"What, what? Who goes there?"

She lowered her weapon quite soon, however, sighing with relief and irritation, when she saw the Hatter, seething with fury, leaning on his worktable, trademark top hat thrown to the floor as his scratched, calloused fingers dug into his wild, stringy, carrot-colored hair.

"Oy! Tarrant, what was that for? What's the problem?"

The Hatter turned to face her. One of his eyes was orange, the other was blue.

"You," he said in a hard, flat voice. "You are the problem."

"What do you mean by that?" Mallymkun snapped, hurt, confused, and insulted, all at the same time.

Now both of Tarrant's eyes were blue.

"Oh, no! No, I didn't mean to offend you, Mally! I didn't, honestly, I didn't! That came out wrong! I'm so silly…please forgive me! Oh, what is the _Hatter_ with me today? First, I lose your Wintreon present, or else somebody takes it…well, someone _must_ have taken it, because I'm sure that I put it here, and I couldn't have lost it, since I didn't touch it afterwards, but, anyway-"

"Hatter! Hatter, time out!"

Hatter jerked, gulped, and then smiled weakly, his eyes their usual neon green.

"Thank you, Mally," he wheezed. "Thank you."

"Now, let me get this straight: you made me a present?"

The Mad Hatter nodded.

"For Wintreon?"

Another nod.

"And now it's gone?"

A third nod.

"And you think somebody stole it?"

Hatter shook his head.

"I do not _think_ someone stole your present, Mally. I _KNOW.__"_

Mally rolled her eyes.

"Look," she said. "You must have just put it down, and forgot where you placed it."

"That can't be right!" Tarrant protested. "I've searched this workshop from ceiling to floor, from cranny to nook, from nook to cranny, and from cook to nanny, and it…they…well, the gift isn't anywhere!"

"Humph. I can see your search was quite thorough…"

Indeed, it had been; there were bonnets on the chandelier, the radio was half-hidden by a sock, and three dresses, still on the mannequins, lay on the floor in a heap. Add the multitude of hats strewn about on the chairs, shelves, and floor, and the workshop was a total disaster area.

"What did you make me, anyway?"

Tarrant Hightopp bit his lip.

Mally groaned.

"Look, Hatter, I can't help you if you don't tell me."

Tarrant made a short, reluctant whimper, like a boy who didn't want to tell his mother he'd eaten cookies before supper, and then said, voice barely a squeak, "Shoes."

Mally raised an eyebrow.

"Shoes?"

"Yes. You've never had any. I thought they'd be a nice addition to your outfit…besides, it's getting very cold, seeing as its winter."

Mallymkun wasn't sure whether to be flattered by or flustered with the Mad Hatter.

"What kind of shoes?"

"…Moccasins. Pink ones, with black leather laces holding them together."

"Do you remember where you put them last?"

"Right here," Hatter responded, pointing vaguely towards the table. "Beside my radio. I turned to start work on a cap that was brought to me for repairs yesterday, heard a noise, and, when I turned, they were gone."

Mally placed a paw to her chin in thought.

"Well…you've torn the room apart, and that noise means some sort of disturbance. Someone must have taken them. But who, and why?"

"And how? I never heard the door open or close! It's almost like…like…"

Hatter paused, frowning, both of his eyes shifting to an orange shade.

"Like what?"

"Lyke they vanushed," Tarrant said, his voice soft and sinister. "Inteh thin ayr."

"…Vanished into thin air?"

Tarrant nodded. Once.

"You don't mean…"

"I do."

"But, that's absurd! Why would he want a pair of slippers, meant for a dormouse?"

"He myght nut want 'em, lass…it could beh one o' his _slurking_ jokes."

Reluctantly, Mally nodded in agreement.

"You have a point there, Hatter…of course, there's only one way to be sure."

Elsewhere, a black, gray, and blue striped Cheshire Cat was trying to warm his paws by candlelight.

Chessur shivered; this Wintreon was going to be a cold one, no doubt of it. No snow had fallen as of late, and frost had yet to latch onto the trees of the orange grove, but the weather was positively frigid, nonetheless. Even the cat's thick fur did little to stave off the chill.

What's more, in terms of personal gain, the winter itself was proving most distressing: he had yet to find a single gift for any of his "comrades in arms," and, while he didn't really need that much meat during winter, he still would have liked something small and feathery/furry to fill his stomach.

Regrettably, most of these things were either sleeping somewhere underground, or had flown off to warmer regions of Underland.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He raised a curious eyebrow, wondering who could be calling, and opened it.

Tarrant Hightopp stood outside, crouched over so that he was at the Cheshire Cat's eye level. His eyes were green, but were a darker shade than usual. He wore a black fur coat over his milliner's outfit, and a white scarf around his neck. Mallymkun the Dormouse, wearing her red jacket, tiny blue mittens, and a pair of miniature red earmuffs, was perched on the brim of his (oh, so lovely) top hat.

"Tarrant. Mally. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" Chessur drawled. "Wintreon isn't for another week.

"Give 'em back, cat."

Chess blinked, face surprised and confused by the Hatter's Outlandish brogue.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I sayd give 'em back!"

Chess, now utterly baffled, looked up at Mally.

"What's he talking about?"

"Someone stole a pair of shoes that Hatter made me for Wintreon. Apparently, he turned away, heard a noise, and, when he looked back, they were gone."

"Gone? Like that?"

Mally nodded.

Chessur gazed at the Hatter with bored, blue-green eyes.

"Are you certain you haven't simply…er…misplaced them?"

"I've searched meh workshop frum top to bottom, an' there's nut a trace of 'em to beh found."

Chess sighed irritably.

"And you thought of me first. I'm touched."

"So, ye don' have 'em?"

"I most definitely do not have rodent-sized shoes with me, my dear Mad Hatter," Chessur hissed, tail lashing like a whip behind him. "In fact, I'm just as upset as you are. What kind of creep steals somebody's Wintreon presents?"

"Would you help us find them, Chess?"

"Of course I will, dormousey!"

Mally huffed.

"Why do you call me that?" she squeaked. "I hate it when you call me that!"

"What other reason need I to continue?"

"They're pink," Tarrant interjected, now in a (more) sane state of mentality. "Tied with black leather laces. Moccasins."

Chess nodded.

"I'll keep a look out for them. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

SWOOMPH. The cat vanished in a cloud of mist, and the door shut.

Chessur reappeared far away from the Hatter and the Dormouse, deep in Tulgey Wood. He'd search, assisting his dormousey, and her Hatter in doing so, oh, yes…

And, if he was really lucky, maybe he'd find a snack while he was at it.

Chess floated idly through the forest, straining his eyes in search of anything pink; he didn't know where to start his search, really, so any place seemed as good as another. As he was hovering over a small, black-leafed shrub, something rustled in its branches. Chess looked over it, moving slightly to the side.

Didn't look like anything was there…

He sniffed the air…and his smile widened.

_Mmm__…__mouse. __Purr-fect__…_

"Well," he said, louder than was normal, "I suppose there is nothing out here! I'll just move along…"

He turned invisible.

He chuckled inwardly as, like he had expected, a small, black mouse, with a white blaze across its muzzle, popped out of the shrubbery. It was a very young mouse…probably still a pup, and wore nothing but an old, worn, and mud-caked brown vest, tattered at the edges and a bit too big. Its fur was dusty and coarse, and it had soft, brown, innocent eyes, which darted left and right as it looked around, cautiously.

It held something in its paws, but the cat couldn't quite tell what it was…nor did he really care. This little beast was his food now; whatever package it carried was as useless as a dead letter.

Unless it bore an address…then he might get a combo meal!

Without another thought, he touched down silently, still invisible, and shot out a paw, pressing down on the pup – a boy, apparently – which squeaked and squealed in horror and surprise as an invisible force pinned it to the ground. The little creature's cries only grew louder and more frantic as its captor materialized, starting with his paw and ending with his tail, a wide, hungry grin stretched across his face.

"No!" the pup cried, beginning to claw at the dirt, trying to flee, and failing miserably. "Don't eat me, please!"

Chess purred…fear had such a heavenly scent.

"Aww," he cooed, teasingly. "Hello, little one! Did I scare you?"

"Yes! Please…please, let go…let go…!"

"Mmm…good. And, no, I don't think I will. Not yet."

His belly growled…oh, he wanted to eat _now__…_

"Did you hear that, little mousey?" he purred, leaning in a bit closer, whispering into the pup's ear. "That's my stomach. It wants to meet you…"

The mouse-child's eyes were brimming with tears, and it sobbed, curling up and clutching whatever it was holding closer to its chest, helpless.

"Oh, no…no, no, no…please…" it moaned.

The cat chuckled darkly, and drew his tongue across the little mouse's face, sopping up some of his tears…which only caused more to fall; children were such tasty little things. Fear, hopelessness, submissiveness, salty tears…all of these whet his more malevolent urges as a predator. In a child, these things were heightened to a near-superhuman level.

His mouth was already watering, but he held back… he knew he probably would not get a chance like this again for a while. Best to savor this morsel while he could.

"One wonders…what are you doing out here, little mousey?" he crooned. "Shouldn't you be with your mummy and daddy, sleeping winter off?"

A soft whimper was the only reply. The cat cocked his head to one side, curiosity enticed, as he saw the doomed pup clinging to the item in his hands, like a much-loved toy or a shield, as if it was more important to him than his very life. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a small paper bag, with…something inside it.

"What have you got there, mousey?"

The child's eyes grew even wider, and he shook his head fast; it didn't want him to see, perhaps fearing he'd take it away and never give it back.

Chessur glared, pressing down harder, making the pup gasp in pain.

"I could crush you, here and now, if I wanted to, _child,_" he growled. "And then I'd still eat you. Unless you want me to squash you, like a human would a fly, I suggest you hand whatever you are holding over to me."

The boy gulped, and relinquished its treasure. Chessur snatched up the small paper bag, and pulled out of it…

A pair of pink moccasins, held together by black lace.

Chessur's eyes widened, and then narrowed again.

"Where did you get these?"

"I…I found them. Sir."

"Found them, or took them without asking?"

The mouse gulped again, more tears finding their way into his eyes.

"You know," hissed the Cheshire Cat, "I was going to grant you a rather painless demise before letting my stomach have its way with you, but now…"

Here he wrapped his fingers tightly around his prey, lifting it up to his face.

"…I see that I'll have to figure out a fare more SEVERE punishment before I consume you."

This renewed the mouse's struggles. It squirmed desperately in his grip, trying to squeeze itself out of his paws. Chess smirked; this child was pushing all the right buttons. It was a particularly amusing little trinket…

"Now, how shall I start? Ooh, I know…I think I'll begin by biting off your limbs, one by one...from the knees and elbows, of course; from the socket generally causes an instant death due to shock. Then I'll bring the rest of you back home with me, and put it in a sandwich. Doesn't that sound fun?"

The child wasn't entirely sure of what the cat was saying, but it didn't sound "fun" to him at all.

"No, please! Pl-please, don't! I'll do anything, sir! Anything! I have to get home…please, I need to get home…!"

_"__Silence.__"_

The mouse let out a whining sound, and ceased in its struggling, though it continued to shake like a leaf.

"Now, you listen here, mousey: these slippers were meant to be a present for someone I hold very dear to my heart…or whatever I have in its place. How would you feel if someone stole something like that from you?"

The mouse froze, and then hung its head, sniffling.

"I…I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know…I didn't mean to…"

It trailed off. Chess sighed in mock compassion.

"All right, little one," he purred. "I believe you…"

He grinned fiercely.

"Therefore, your death shall be fast."

The mouse screamed, and started to kick and squirm once more.

Chess groaned; this was already getting old.

"Oh, no, please! Don't kill me! I-I have to get home! You don't understand…I need to get home! Please, let me get home…!"

"Why? What's so important?"

The child stared up with pleading eyes.

"It's my mother sir," he said. "She's…well, she's very sick…"

Chess stared suspiciously into his dinner's eyes; usually, he wouldn't pay attention to such a claim. If he had a gold coin for every snack that said something along those lines to try and gain his pity, he'd be as wealthy as the White Queen, and twice as happy. It was really quite clichéd, to be perfectly honest.

But…when he looked into the pup's eyes, he felt something tug at his frozen, miniscule heartstrings, especially when he realized it was telling the truth.

He sighed again; this time it was genuine.

_If __you__'__re __a __softy, __and __you __know __it, __clap __your __hands__…_

"Very well, my little meatball," he growled. "I'll make you a deal: I'm going to put you back down, but I'm not giving you these shoes. If you really want them, and your earlier actions have told me you do, then you had best not run off; I won't give chase if you do, but you will never get these shoes back. Am I clear so far?"

"C-c-crystal, sir."

"Goody. Now, once I put you down, I'm going to ask you a few questions. How truthfully they are answered will determine the aftermath of this encounter."

"Wh-what do you mean?"

Chessur's smile could have made Stayne quake. He flicked out a claw, and held it before the pup's face.

"See this?"

The pup nodded, eyes locked on the claw's needle-sharp tip.

"I have a great deal more where it came from. Lie to me even once, and I will stick all of them into your body, and twist them like screws, until your entrails are made into your 'extrails.' Understand?"

"Y-yes, s-s-sir!"

The pup, once again, really didn't, but it did know two things: one, what the cat was telling it sounded very painful, and two, if he said that he didn't understand, he wouldn't put it past his predator to give him a sampler of what it was talking about.

"Excellent. Let us begin…"

Chess plopped the black mouse onto the ground, and sat back on his haunches. The mouse pup sat on the ground, terrified almost beyond belief.

There was an urgency in its eyes that told Chess it was hoping this point of its encounter with him wouldn't take long, and not because it was afraid of him, either.

This only enticed his curiosity further.

"Now, what's all this about a sick mother, eh?"

"W-well, sir…I live with my mum and dad…"

"Most do."

"They had four pups…I'm the only one that survived past being a baby. They've always tried to make this part of the year a happy and fun time for me, even if they had to go without as a result…even if they had to steal, like uncivilized animals…"

Chessur yawned, making sure to give the pup an excellent view of his open maw.

"Boring," he sing-songed. "You are losing my interest, little one, and that could prove detrimental to your health. You haven't answered my question: what's wrong with your mother?"

"I-I was getting to that, sir. A few weeks ago, she went out to get dinner and…"

"And?"

"…Well, apparently a crow attacked her. She got away, with the food, but the bird caught her with its talons, and…"

"And? Don't make me say that infernal word a third time!"

The mouse hesitated, and then peeped, "Well…she caught an infection. Dad doesn't know the cure, and he says there's not enough time for a doctor. I…I think she's going to die, sir."

Another tug at the cat's heartstrings, which shook away a bit of the frost. He did his best to ignore it.

"Why did you steal those shoes? Where do they come into play?"

"I wanted mum to have a present of her own…she and dad have never had one, and they've always gotten or made me something. So, I snuck into Mr. Hightopp's workroom, from under the door, because I knew he was so good at making clothes and things, and I saw them on the table. I climbed onto the table, and just…grabbed them. He must have heard me, for he turned round so fast I almost didn't get to a hiding place in time. When he turned his back again, to try and find them, I jumped down and ran off."

"And why didn't you just look around for something else?"

"Pink was…I mean, _is,_ mum's favorite color, and the shoes were just her size."

"Why the rush? Why couldn't you have made something of your own?"

"I told you, sir…dad says there's not much time left," said the pup. He'd kept his head down this whole time. Now, he turned it up to look at the cat.

"Please, sir, I'm begging you…let me give her these shoes. I want her to look beautiful if she gets to see Heaven tonight. After that, if you really want to, you can eat me up."

The Cheshire Cat was silent. His expression was blank.

"…Please?" the boy squeaked, timidly.

Chessur sighed. His smile was now very gentle, and the hunger and malice in his eyes had drifted away.

"I couldn't eat you now if I tried, little one," he said softly. "Even I have a conscience…annoying it may be. But I'm not letting you run off alone, either. Where do you live?"

The boy was on his feet almost instantly, grinning excitedly, hopefully.

"Not far from here, sir! Please, can you take me there?"

"I can and I will. Climb on my back, boy, and point the way."

The mouse pup did so, muttering happily to himself, "Mum's going to look so great!"

Chess chuckled wryly.

_Tarrant __will __simply __have __to __make __Mally __a __new __pair __of __shoes, __or __whatever,_ he thought. _Besides, __it__'__s __the __thought __that __really __counts._

**A ****week ****later****…**

Chess was shivering as he entered his house, wearing a black-and-purple striped scarf, which he unwound and threw to the floor. It vanished in a cloud of mist.

He leaned back on the door, tired and suffering from a mild headache (he'd had one too many glasses of brandy-laced tea), and sighed softly, closing his eyes.

His eyes opened again quite soon, when a delicious smell found its way to his nose…

They grew wide when he saw the source of the tantalizing odor.

Lying on his table, roasted like a miniature turkey and cooked a delightful golden-brown, was a pigeon on a plate.

_Now,__who__'__d __give __me __a __pigeon?_

Then he noticed a small piece of paper, lying beside the plate. He went over and picked it up, reading it.

_**Mr. Cat,**_

_**Mum smiled so wide, I thought her face would split. She died happier than I had ever seen her. This bird was dead when we found it; we had a friend cook it. I hope you like it. Thank you, and have a Happy Wintreon.**_

_**You-Know-Who**_

Chessur stared at the note for a while.

A tear leaked from his left eye. He dashed it away quickly.

"And a Happy Wintreon to you," he murmered, "You tasty little scallywag."


End file.
